


The Living Years

by daisyqiaolianmay (skinman)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Academy Era, F/F, F/M, Gen, Origins, Philinda - Freeform, S.H.I.E.L.D - Freeform, headcanon family, their past, young coulson, young may
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 13:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4523091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinman/pseuds/daisyqiaolianmay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The origin story of Phil Coulson and Melinda May. Set at the S.H.I.E.L.D Academy in the early 80s during Peggy Carter's run as Director.<br/>Their first meeting, becoming allies, becoming friends, becoming more, all while trying to complete one of the most difficult and dangerous training programs in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleeping By Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is more of a character study of young coulson for the first half, just setting the ground work, then it picks up a bit.

August was too early to be starting school, Phil had decided. Although, this wasn’t exactly school, the rules were different now, everything was.

_‘You’re exactly the kind of person we’re looking for, Phil. Young, determined, athletic, intelligent-’_

_‘Unattached.’ Phil interrupted._

Phillip Coulson looked out across the field, cadets clothed in black jogging in formation, and wondered where he’d be now if they were still alive. Packing for Yale? Travelling with his friends? It didn’t matter now. He was going to make the best of this lousy hand.

“Phil Coulson?” A voice met his ears and he turned to see who’d called his name. It was the same agent who’d sought him out after his grandfather’s death. An Agent he now considered a friend of sorts, and if not a friend, an ally.

The man was a few years older than Phil, dark skin, dark eyes, and a bright smile that held a sharp edge, like he had the upper hand on you at all times. He couldn’t be more than 25 years old, but was highly accomplished; from what Phil could tell he must be rising through the ranks of S.H.I.E.L.D pretty quickly. Phil liked him.

“Agent Fury.” Coulson took the hand he was offered and gripped it. The young man wondered again whether ‘Fury’ was his real name, or whether he’d chosen it. Just seemed a bit cliché comic book spy, that was all.

“Nice to see you didn’t stand me up.”

Phil shrugged, “Thought about it a few times back on the greyhound, not going to lie to you Sir.”

The agent laughed, placing a hand on Coulson’s shoulder, and steering him toward a building on their right. It was brand new 70s architecture, clean lines of concrete and glass.

“Orientation. Second door on the right. Gotta shoot off, might not be seeing you for a while Coulson.” He gave the kid a light shove in the direction of the door.

“Sir?” The boy frowned, a dent forming between his brows.

“I’m headed to the Triskelion for briefing, I’m being deployed, but I’ll be back.” Now it was the agent’s turn to walk away, flashing a smile over his shoulder. “I’m betting on you Cadet!”

At least someone had his back.

The orientation hall was packed, the lights low, set out like a lecture hall, there must have been a good 300 cadets. Freshmen ranged from 16 to 20. This was not your normal college in any sense.

Silence fell as Phil entered, the door slamming with what seemed like extra force in the fallen quiet.

“You’re late Cadet. I’m hoping you have a good excuse.” A woman was stood at the front, her hands resting on a podium. She’d obviously been speaking when he’d so rudely interrupted. She looked to be in her 50s, and beautiful, in Phil’s opinion. He put together the pieces slowly; British accent, age, blue skirt suit, and a residing strength in the way she stood. He recognised her, it had been a couple of years, but she hadn’t change that much. He’d interrupted Peggy Carter. Director Carter. Love of Captain America’s life Peggy Carter. His knees went a little and Phil grabbed the nearest seat to hold himself up. The girl sat there gave him a dark look he didn’t register.

“Sorry Ma’am. Agent Fury wanted to speak with me.”

The Director seemed to visibly draw back, “You’re Phillip Coulson, aren’t you?” There was recognition in her face, realising where she’d seen this boy before.

Phil found his voice, “Um… yes. Yes, Ma’am.”

The Director cracked a smile at the star struck boy. “Take a seat, Cadet.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _“Fortiter in re, suaviter in modo.”_ Phil muttered to himself. He knew Latin. By the age of 17 he’d known English, French, Spanish, and Latin. His grandfather had insisted on 3 hours of immersed language tuition each day.

“Resolutely in action, gently in manner.” It was a young male voice that translated the words, another cadet, probably.

The statue on which the motto was engraved was of Colonel Chester Phillips in his prime, dressed in full military gear. The memorial was exactly what the man whom it commemorated would have wished it to be. Though, Phil thought, ‘Gently in manner,’ was not exactly how the Colonel would have likely been described by anyone that had met him during his lifetime.

Phil looked over to regard the translator.

 “Harry Louis Gordon” The other cadet said. His eyes glinting mischievously. He had dark skin, a shaven head, stubble gathering around his jaw, and a smile that seemed to go on and on. He looked 19, or maybe 20, perhaps.

Phil took his hand, watching the other boy as he sized him up, “Phillip Joseph Chester Coulson.”

Harry smiled, “That’s a mouthful.”

 Phil didn’t disagree with him, but every single one had been given to him by his mother, so he wasn’t going to drop any of them.

“And… Phillip and Chester… as in…?” The guy pointed to the statue and raised an eyebrow.

Phil shrugged, “A coincidence.” He brushed off the speculation. He wasn’t keen on the idea of other cadets knowing his lineage.

Growing up Phillip Coulson had two very different male role models.

 His father, Robert Coulson; was an average man. He’d died nearly a decade ago, after a short illness. Just a formal, small funeral, fit for a Wisconsin football coach. Growing up Robert had done what was expected of him; gone to school, got a job, fell for a girl, and started a family with her. He hadn’t been meant to die so young, nobody had been expecting it.

However, despite his father’s influence, this life, the life of a soldier, a government agent, was in Phil’s blood too. His mother had always seen it in him; Julie Coulson… formerly Julie Phillips.

Phil Coulson’s Grandpa, his second male influence, had been quite the different deal. Colonel Chester Phillips had been deep in S.H.I.E.L.D. Not just a supporter, or an agent, but a founder. He’d known Peggy Carter and Captain Rogers personally. Phil had been raised on stories of Captain America’s heroics and the missions of the strategic scientific reserve.

His father had passed him a football, told him it was in his blood. His grandfather had taught him how to protect himself, protect others, shown him that was his birth right.

When Julie Coulson died, three years after her husband, the Colonel had been the only family Phil had left. Getting weaker by the day, Chester Phillips was an elderly man living out his last days in a big house in Boston, slowly hobbling into his 90s on his last few legs. Honestly, he’d lasted longer than his doctors had expected.

A young orphaned Phillip Coulson had upped and left his family home in Wisconsin and made his way to Boston alone, aged only 13 years old.

He was home schooled there. Simultaneously studying, training, and caring for his grandfather.

Growing up means learning your role models, especially your parents, aren’t all you thought they were. Phil Coulson never had the luxury of discovering his parent’s faults first hand, but he saw the faults of his parents in himself. He knew that his father had instilled fears in him, doubts, especially concerning his grandfather.

Chester Phillips was not a perfect man, some would argue that he was often not a kind man, but he was a good man, one that was dedicated to the protection of the people of America and her allies. Robert Coulson had been a simple man in comparison, to him a life of simple pleasures and simple difficulties had been enough. It was fair to say the two men had butted heads on occasion. Decisions about Phil’s upbringing had caused a lot of strife within the family. Compromises were made, wherein Phil was trained in football on Tuesdays, and hand to hand combat on Thursdays. He spent Saturday’s fixing a red corvette with his dad, and Sunday’s learning to fix a person with his Grandpa. He was nine when he won his first little league trophy, and ten when he learned to fire an automatic pistol.

Phil could barely remember his father’s funeral, his mother’s was a dark blur, but his grandfather’s had been an unforgettable event. As a revered Colonel of the United States army and co-founder of an intelligence organisation, Chester Phillips was as decorated a soldier as there could be. There had been an incredible ceremony in DC in commemoration of his life, and a smaller funeral in Boston, where he was buried beside Phil’s grandmother.

Phil remembers getting up for the funeral. It was a Saturday, a week and two days after his grandfather passed. Mrs Lee, the housekeeper, had hung a brand new black suit on his closet door. He didn’t speak to anyone until he reached the church, and when he did it was only to answer the softly spoken ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ with a ‘thank you’ and a nod.

‘He was a good man,’ was a common phrase that day.

‘Yes. He was.’ Was the common answer, but Chester Phillips had been more than that, and Phil acknowledged that in his thoughts. _‘He was all I had.’_

People had paid close attention to the 16 year old boy sat alone in the front pew, hands in his lap, eyes focused down. Hiding, or in prayer? Phil himself wasn’t sure. Phillip Coulson was Chester Phillips’ last legacy, and therefore a curiosity. But, that day he was left alone to grieve, until the church was locked for the night, and passer-by’s were left to wonder who the young man sat at the foot of a fresh grave had lost. 

The ceremony in DC was bigger, much bigger. Flags risen along the streets in his grandfather’s honour. President Carter himself had attended and Phil had never seen so many uniformed individuals in his life. In knowing who his audience would be Phil knew he would not turn down the chance to say what needed to be said, what his grandfather would have wanted him to say, though perhaps not exactly how he would have wished him to say it. Despite growing up with strong ties to them, Phil had always been distrustful of the military, or rather, the government that wielded them.

 _‘Colonel Phillips’ grandson wishes to say a few words.’_ Phil hadn’t wanted to originally, he hadn’t wanted to lose himself in front of these people, in front of intelligence agents and officers of the US army, not to mention the President, but his grandfather would have wanted him to say a few words. After all, he would never get this opportunity again. He’d always chided himself for never saying anything for his mother when he had the chance.

Any conversation died as a teenage Phil Coulson rose from his seat and walked to stand behind the podium. He was not a dominating figure, average height, strong but slender in nature being he was not more than a month or so past 16 years, and dressed in a tailored dark blue suit and black tie, but like his mentor and grandfather he held a certain air of command, in some strange unique way of his own.

_‘I’m not going to bore you with anecdotes to show you what a good grandfather the Colonel was, because honestly his idea of bonding was teaching me to shoot straight. Though, the truth is he was a good grandfather, in his own way. He taught me the importance of strength, how it holds no weight if not used to protect, to shield.’_

_That earned a murmur of agreement and a rush of soft clapping._

_‘I was raised on tales of Captain Roger’s courage, and on the one true and pure ideal the US army and S.H.I.E.L.D were both founded upon; Protection.’ Phil sucked in a breath, the Colonel had always taught him that controlling your breathing was the key to keeping control of your body, and there was no way Phil was going to let himself fall apart in front of these people. ‘To strive to protect the people of this country, of this planet, to the last man. The Colonel stayed loyal to that ideal to his last breath. I saw it in him every day. We are the people he now puts his faith in, to continue that ideal, to bring it into the future with us. To make sure that the protection of human lives takes precedence above all else, especially the ambition of the few. I know that I intend to dedicate my life to it, as he did, and I hope I will not be alone in that. But today, we pay our respects, to good soldier, and a good man.’_

_Silence fell as the flag was taken down, folded, and given to the boy. A badge laid on top, red and blue ribbon, a silver circle with a star at its centre, the Roger’s Shield, a medal awarded to those who had dedicated their lives to the protection of the peoples of the United States of America. It had been received by only 5 people since its induction in the 40s._

_General Avery quietly said to Phil, ‘Director Carter commissioned this personally. It’s what Captain Rogers would have wanted.’_

Later Phil was informed that Director Carter had been present and seen him speak, but Phil hadn’t caught a glimpse of her.

It was all taken care of from there. Phil was taken care of. His inheritance was to be held for him until he was 18, at which point he would be allowed to withdraw any amount he wished. The house was paid off, and the Colonel had organised for Phil to continue to live, study, and train in it, under the supervision of Mrs Lee, his tutors, and household security, until he came of age, at which point it would become his property. Once a month he was visited by various men and women in dark suits, Phil had always assumed them to be S.H.I.E.L.D agents, they would ask him questions concerning his safety, wander the property, and leave within the day.

By the time of his 18th birthday Phil Coulson was bored; with the house, with his training, with everything. Agent Fury had conveniently arrived one day and given him an out, a new life at S.H.I.E.L.D. Phil had begun to wonder whether this had been the plan all along, to induct him into S.H.I.E.L.D only when the time was right. He’d been in training since the day he could walk, so it made sense.

And that’s how Phil Coulson ended up stood in the lobby of the S.H.I.E.L.D academy, Operations division.

“Alright Cadets. I’m Cadet Hand, I’ll be showing you to your dorms.” The girl who spoke did so with command in her voice, though she looked to be perhaps even younger than Phil. Pale skin, and dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, a blue stripe running through it. Dark eyes framed by thick-rimmed dark spectacles, she was wearing tightfitting gear through which the bare outlines of wiry, strong muscles could just about be made out. The clothing was black, S.H.I.E.L.D issue, with an emblem over the breast. Hand was obviously a senior cadet, two white bands on the fabric, around the top of her right arm, she was in her 2nd year.

She walked and talked leading the cadets out of the building, turning corners with ease. She seemed to know the campus like the back of her hand. They stopped outside another larger building, the windows were smaller on this one than the other. Phil assumed this must be accommodation.

“Welcome to sector 3. You will each have your own room, fitted with a bed, draws, desk, sink, mirror, and a chair, showers are shared on a floor by floor basis. That’s 2 showers for every floor of 8 cadets. 4th year senior cadets have access to baths in sectors 4 and 5, if a junior cadet is found to be utilising those baths they will be punished. Gyms and sparring rooms on the 3rd and 6th floors are open every day, all day. Larger gyms and sparring rooms in sector 4 will open at 800 hours and close at 2200 hours. Each floor of 8 cadets shares a kitchen and pantry, pantries will be stocked each week but you will be expected to cook for yourself. Better try and get comfortable because that floor might be your home for the next four years. Transfers may occur at the end of the year, but will only be Okayed during under exceptional circumstances. Consuming contraband on campus will be met with punishment, if you are found to be transporting contraband into the facility you will be punished further. Consuming illegal substances or participating in illegal or illicit activities, depending on the nature of those activities, will be met with either extreme punishments or immediate expulsion from the academy.”

Phil shared a wide-eyed look with the cadet next to him, Harry Gordon. The smiley Latin-speaker wasn’t smiling any more. They and the other newbies continued to walk behind the more senior cadet as she reeled off more regulations. She led them down toward another wider building, with a curved front.

“Up ahead is sector 4. Here you’ll do the majority of your physical training.”

They passed a field that looked to be set up with training equipment, army style training equipment. Mud pits, timber walls, barbed wire. Phil raised an eyebrow.

“We take 300 or so new cadets each year, we expect to lose 50 within the first 12 months, 100 to 150 by the end of 3rd year. On average only 120 cadets will make it to graduation.”

Phil was sure he would be in the 120, but looking around he realised, every single cadet he was here with believed they would be too, that’s why they were here in the first place. He had to make it, there was no other option for him. This had to happen. He was in a good position, the Colonel had put him in the best position; he was already trained to the level of a 2nd year cadet, but still he worried.

“I’m sure you’re all excited to be agents already, but these 4 years as a cadet will determine your entire future at S.H.I.E.L.D. It’s only during your last year that you will be screened personally by a senior agent and sorted into companies, strike teams, and specialists.”

There was muttering.

“What?” Gordon whispered next to Phil, more to himself than anyone else.

Phil whispered back, keeping his eyes on Cadet Hand, “Company means 6 to 8 agents. Strike Team means 2. And Specialists work alone.”

Hand continued, “1st and 2nd years are pure training and module assessment. Know that any time spent in sector 4 is monitored by your tutors. In your 3rd year you will perform a series of high-risk tests and challenges designed to push you to whatever limits you might find yourself pushed to as an Agent, 3rd year is when we have the most drop-outs. 4th year is integration, finding your feet in the agency, courses in administrative duties, introduction to mission technique out in the field, and more advanced training. You will be given the chance to meet senior cadets from our Science and Technology, and Communications divisions. You will not be allowed access to level one Intel until after your assignment to a base and S.O.”

There was silence.

“Other than that, welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D.” Hand finished.

Phil was jostled, someone he couldn’t yet see was making their way through the crowd. A few moments later a dark haired girl emerged from the front of the crowd, dressed in the same black uniform as Hand. Except the cadet in question only had one band around her upper arm, marking her out as a 1st year cadet, like him, like all the cadets in the crowd. A small black duffle was slung over her right shoulder. A dent of confusion appeared between Phil’s brows. Why wasn’t she part of the crowd? How come she had her uniform on already?

Cadet Hand nodded to the girl as she made her way toward her, “Cadet May will be happy to answer questions you have.”

 _‘What the hell?’_ was the only question Phil had at that point in time.

The first thing Phil noticed about the girl was that she was small, couldn’t be more than 5’6 in height, and petite. The second thing he noticed was that she was pretty, dark eyes, dark hair cut to her collarbone, tanned skin, and Asian in ethnicity. A dangerous warmth in her eyes, like a blanket to put you to sleep, or suffocate you. Her mouth was curved in a small smile, hands behind her back, easy and loose in her stance. She belonged here.

Hand disappeared into Sector 4, leaving Cadet May to take over completely.

She looked around at the wide-eyed recruits, still a little out of it after Cadet Hand taking a bash them with a truckload of information, rules, and regulations. She smiled a little wider, not so much finding comfort in their discomfort, but relating to it, remembering her first day.

“When does training start?” Was the first question.

Her voice was calculated, but flowed easily, “800 hours, Thursday morning. The more senior cadets begin tomorrow morning but as new recruits you’re given at least 48 hours to settle in to your quarters and get used to the facility.”

After that there was a series of nondescript questions that Phil barely listened to. He found himself concentrating on the way May’s mouth moved and forced himself to focus on her eyes, which honestly didn’t seem to help much.

Soon he realised the group was moving back toward sector 3 to be sorted into floors. As it turned out a ‘floor’ by Hand’s definition actually referred to a quarter of an actual floor of the building. 32 cadets per actual floor, 8 in each quarter-floor, a large common room for each floor, a separate one for each quarter. 10 floors were designated to the 308 new cadets, all in sector 3. Accommodation for 4th year senior cadets was in sector 5.

May began to read out names; separating the cadets into groups of 8, giving them their keys, and sending them up.

“4A. Freed, Reginald. Mackenzie, Elsa. Chen, Kwan…”

It was a while before Phil was called.

“12B. Blake, Felix. Sultan, Emma. Gordon, Harry. Twinette, Seth. Doggett, Sam. Daniels, Mila. Coulson, Phillip. Wen, Lily.

Phil shot Harry a smile as he went collect his key. Cadet May gave him an intense look he couldn’t place as she dropped it into his palm.

The 8 strangers trudged upstairs, single file till they reached 12B. The stairs took them to a lobby with bare wooden flooring, five fair sized black doors. One of his roommates, Sam Doggett, led them through a unlocked door on the left.

The common room was central, large, and circular, with a table, chairs, and few couches. Nine doors leading off, and a kitchen to their right. Each door, bar the one to the shower room, had been assigned a silver plaque with a name engraved on it. The 7th door read _‘Coulson’_.

“Home, Sweet Home.” Harry announced, dumping his backpack onto the floor and falling into a couch.

After a quick sweep of their shared quarters the cadets made their way to their individual rooms, jostling their keys in the locks.

Phil hadn’t been expecting much and overall he wasn’t surprised, though the fresh smell was an unexpected relief. The room was the size of your average single-bed university dorm room; meaning that its area was just the right side of a broom closet. A bare desk on the left, undressed bed on the right, with a few draws built in underneath it. A wash basin at the far wall, next to a long window, and a mirror above it. A fair few shelves sat above the desk and by the sink for books and personal things. Phil threw his duffle on the bed, throwing himself down after it, not bothering to remove his sneakers.

Phil tucked his hands behind his head, noting the pinpricks in the ceiling where a previous occupant had stuck photos, or perhaps a poster. So this was home now, for the next 9 months at the least. He found it difficult to determine whether he missed his room in Boston. He missed the space, the freedom, having his own bathroom, but the house itself, he didn’t miss, not yet. There were parts of it he still hadn’t ventured into those past two years without the Colonel. The balcony didn’t bring him any peace anymore, just memories of his grandfather’s whiskey-fuelled and rare chuckles, embellished war stories, Bill Wither’s records, and pink sunsets over the Atlantic. All the stuff that was explicitly Chester Phillips in nature. And his grandfather’s bedroom? Forget it. Only Ella, the maid, ventured in there once a week to keep the dust from settling and the moths from eating the unused contents of the closet.

After a minute or so of reading the constellations on the ceiling Phil stood up to advance on a box sat on the desk. Agent Fury had called it the ‘Welcome Box’. It was fairly large, big enough to fit everything he would need for 9 months at the academy; 2 sets of summer uniform, 2 sets of winter uniform, various gear (e.g. a whistle, a water bottle), a thick information booklet, black socks, his text books for the year, and five ring-binders.

A knock on his door drew his attention, “Who is it?”

Harry Gordon seemed to take the question as an invitation and barged in. He fell down onto Phil’s bed, his own copy of the information booklet in hand, open toward the front. He waved it around, “Have you read this thing?”

“In the 2 minutes since I found it? Nope, but I take it you have.” Phil’s eyes glistened with humour at the older boy’s antics as he took his uniforms from the box, preparing to put them in the draws below his bed.

“Listen to this. _‘Romantic and sexual relationships between cadets are tolerated but ill-advised.’_ ” Harry shut the booklet with a clap of the pages, “What does that even mean?”

“I guess it means they’re ‘tolerated but ill-advised’.” Phil answered dryly, smiling as he tucked his new clothes into a draw, having nudged Harry’s feet aside to be able to open it.

Harry huffed, “So are we allowed to date other cadets or not?”

“Why? Got you sights set on someone already, Gordon?” Phil teased, an uncertainty in his tone. He thought back to the petite girl with the dark hair and dangerously warm eyes. He was such a hypocrite.

“You can, but don’t.” A faceless voice answered Harry’s question. A girl with dark curls and tan skin appeared at the door, her nails painted black as their new uniforms, and her eyes, a stained glass kind of green that seemed to radiate light, were outlined just as darkly. Mila Daniels.

“Dating complicates things.” She stuck her hands in her jean pockets, then shrugged, her eyes falling to meet Harry’s. “Hook-ups, no romantic attachment, not so complicated.”

The boys stared at her a second, frozen in place, their minds racing. Was she… seriously suggesting what they thought she was?

Harry was first to crack a smirk, “Is that a proposition, Cadet Daniels?”

Mila raised a defined dark brow in response and walked away slowly.

Harry turned to share a look with Phil, “I think she likes me.”

Phil didn’t respond, and just continued putting his socks away. He decided it wouldn’t do Harry any good to hear that Phil was inclined to agree with him.

Harry hopped up, “So what about you, Phil?”

“Huh?”

“Bet you’re a right ladies’ man, am I right? It’s the blue eyes.” Harry’s own eyes were full of laughter as he pointed at Phil’s face. “Bet they can’t get enough of those baby blues.”

This time Phil laughed out loud. “Sorry to disappoint but the last time I had a girlfriend was 1st grade.”

Harry winced comically, “All boys’ school?”

“Home-schooled, actually. Since I was 13.” Phil said.

“Ouch.”

“It was a nice house.” Was Phil’s only response.

A crash from the kitchen drew the 8 roommates out from their rooms at speed. A dazed Cadet Twinette was sprawled out on his back by the pantry door, he lifted his head and groaned.

Phil had recognised Seth Twinette as one of, if not the tallest cadet, in the crowd of newbies. He was easily 6’5 and built like a brick wall, with muscles in bulk. Dark slick looking hair and heavy eyebrows above his dark eyes, lined by thick lashes. His deep olive skin tone nodded toward an Egyptian lineage, as did his forename, while ‘Twinette’ was distinctly French.

A gangly, blonde cadet Phil recognised as Emma Sultan scurried over to help him up, “You okay, Seth?”

“Yeah, just…” He rubbed his head, “misjudged the door frame a smidge.” Seth smiled sheepishly at everyone. His British accent surprised Phil a fair bit, he never would have called that one.

Emma and Sam Doggett hauled Seth back onto his feet.

It was then that all 8 members of the household were stood around in a wonky circle, sizing each other up.

“It’s nearly 6.” Phil announced, the calculated silence was unnerving him. “Anyone want dinner?”

Seth’s hand was the first to unabashedly shoot up. Harry’s followed, then Mila’s, soon everyone had their hand up.

“Guess I’m making dinner for 8 then.” Phil smiled, it was kind of like having a family again, just a little.

That first evening spent sat around on the couches, listening to bad music, eating pasta off cheap crockery, and learning about those not-so-much-strangers-anymore, sure beat a night spent eating pizza in his bedroom alone.

His new friends were a worthy distraction, but the dangerously warm-eyed girl still played on his mind deep into the night.

 

* * *

 

 

_please follow me at[coulsonskids](http://www.coulsonskids.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! i'm taking prompts _

 

* * *

 

 

 


	2. All The Light I Need

“Tennyson, you’re lagging! 50 more push ups.” Agent Dunbar always spoke in a way that made you want to quake in your boots. He was a nice enough man, loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D, but there’d always been stories circulating about his days in the field, days were he was once a ruthless officer. He wasn’t someone you wanted to be on the wrong side of.

Phil knew though, he knew the Agent had a mother and elderly grandmother in New Mexico. That he had never missed going home for Hanukkah, and he always took a week off in April to go home for his nephew’s birthday.

All the Agent’s reports, including attendance reports, still got downloaded to household server in Boston. At the end it had taken Phil’s grandfather 10 minutes to get down the stairs and 20 to get back up again, and the Colonel had grumped and huffed whenever Phil had tried to convince him to use the chair lift. Even toward the end Chester Phillips had been stubborn as a bull. So as a compromise a compact portable computer, CPC, had been commissioned so the Colonel could access S.H.I.E.L.D Intel from his bed. Phil knew it had been a comfort. His grandfather had never admitted that it hurt to move, but he had watched the old man wince when he thought Phil wasn’t looking. Upon packing for the academy Phil had thrown the CPC in on a whim, and it had come to be not so much useful, as entertaining, being that he was able to access certain files on his tutors.

The blond cadet Agent Dunbar had addressed, Freddie Tennyson, looked about ready to burst into tears, his arms straining, and it made Phil squirm a little. He knew this was for their own good but it didn’t stop him feeling for the kid.

Day two, six drop outs already. A 3rd year cadet he’d talked to outside the sparring room door early this morning had said it was like this every year; at least fifteen recruits would cut their losses in the first week while they still had a chance of joining a college program instead.

Lily Wen had left floor 12B that morning. So many people entered training at the academy without knowing what to expect, being that like the organisation itself information concerning the training program was kept restricted. For good reason… because ethically speaking, some members of the public might have questions about the techniques used in the program, especially in the 3rd year. The 3rd year tests were designed to stretch the cadets to their furthest limit, to prepare them for whatever may come, so understandably they might be a little… questionable.

Phil hadn’t had much of a chance to get to know Lily. She’d been nice, Scottish it seemed. He recognised the accent. A little shy when it came to speaking but she’d laughed a lot, and Phil made no attempt to deny the fact she was nice looking. Short dark hair, skin like porcelain, big golden-brown eyes. Not quite Phil’s type, but extremely pretty, and she’d been the one to bring ready-mix cookies, which meant after their first day they’d gotten a mug of hot cocoa and a fresh warm cookie. Cadet Doggett, Sam, had made a quip about how it wasn’t very ‘Government Agents in Training’ of them, and with that Twinette had taken a flask out of his pocket and dumped a shot of whiskey in his cocoa, a content smile on his face. He said he was _‘making it Irish’_.

“That where you’re from?” Cadet Felix Blake had wondered aloud.

It earned a sad sort of chortle from Twinette, “No. Oh no, no, I’m from England… Guildford. We and the Irish... don’t get along.”

Seth suddenly got quiet and Lily came to sit beside him, offering him the last cookie. The two seemed to share a knowledge Phil didn’t understand yet. Lily had kept a watchful eye on Seth for the rest of the evening, Phil had watched her eyes flick to the cadet every once in a while, checking up on him.

‘Must be a British thing.’ Mila said later when only Phil, Harry and she were left sat on the couches.

Phil would have liked to have known Lily better. With her decision to leave their quarter-floor of eight had suddenly shrunk to seven.

Phil had brought up their sudden fall in number up that morning. Harry had then made a series of jokes about Snow White leaving the dwarves whilst the seven of them had been trampling across the field to Sector 4 for training. He’d quickly assigned ‘Dopey’ to Seth with a laugh, having misjudged Cadet Twinette’s laidback nature for passivity. Seth had simply grinned and given Harry a shove at just the right moment; he’d slipped on a patch of bare turf with a sharp yell and landed with his butt in a mud pit.

Always the one to take a joke a step further Harry had leant back, swilled the mud around a bit, and put his nose up at his laughing peers, commenting that it was _‘like a spa treatment really’_.

Upon their arrival in Sector 4 Phil had to put his hand over his mouth to stop himself laughing as Agent Dunbar had looked a completely soiled Cadet Gordon up and down with distaste.

“Fell in a mud pit did we, Cadet?”

Harry had narrowed his eyes, not keen on lying to the Agent, but also not in a hurry to rat Seth out for pushing him.

Seth cleared his throat, “Actually I pushed him, Sir.”

All the cadets stood very still, waiting to see what punishment Agent Dunbar was going to dish out.

The Agent just nodded, “Next time, Twinette, could you try to push Cadet Gordon into a clean hole, he’s dripping mud all over my nice, clean mats.”

And that was that.

It was Monday morning when Phil saw the girl from induction again, the one with the soft smile and dangerously warm eyes, Cadet May. Still as ever a mystery with one band of white round her arm. In the week she’d been absent from Phil’s presence he had come to wonder if he’d made too much of an assumption. Perhaps she had lost her uniform and been forced to borrow a shirt? That would explain why she only wore one band when she was so obviously an experienced cadet. But when he saw her standing before him on Monday she was still sporting one band and lining up for Initial Tactical Theory, the 1st year tactics class.

She sat two rows in front of him, eyes focused ahead the whole time, he never got a glimpse of her face the whole hour he sat there. There was a window at the back of the lecture hall and the sun filtered through glancing off the back of her head. Phil began to notice the red in it, in the light the dark brown had an auburn glow. After 10 minutes Phil huffed at himself, refocusing his attention on the lecture. It was on basic tactics, nothing he didn’t know at 12 years old, but he should still have been listening. He made a firm mental note to sit in front of Cadet May next time.

Sparring was more trouble. Some sparring slots were flexible, but he had to attend his Tuesday and Thursday morning sparring slots, and as it happened Cadet May had the exact same sparring slots. Sparring meant movement, lots of it, he couldn’t just sit in front of her and keep his focus ahead.

“Hey, Phil,” Felix waved a hand in front of his friend and roommate’s face, his chest heaving with exertion. They’d been moving nearly non-stop for 20 minutes. “Eyes on me. I have to get this angle right before Agent Isaacs comes over again.”

Phil tore his eyes away from watching her fight. He enjoyed watching her, she was skilled, incredibly so. It made things a lot more interesting, some of the new recruits didn’t even know how to throw a proper right-hook. Phil had been training his whole life, he was really good at this stuff, but to her it seemed to come as naturally as breathing. She was fluid and fast and different. She had her own style, unlike most cadets. Phil assumed she’d had previous training elsewhere.

Felix Blake put his fists back up and they began slowly. Phil was letting the other cadet practice his side-snap, bracing himself for a hard hit. The pad he was wearing would protect his ribs from fracturing but it didn’t stop the strike hurting a bit.

As if out of nowhere cadet was to his left, striding beside the mat. Phil glanced over to see who and met her eyes, her dangerously warm eyes, dark as night. Dark and beautiful… _Sparks catching. Warmth. Danger. Candles in a blackout and marshmallows melting by the hearth. Forest fires burning and smoke suffocating. Beautiful contradictions. She was a beautiful contradiction._ Phil lost concentration, forgetting he was about to be kicked straight in the chest, he broke stance.

Felix’s foot hit him right in the centre of the pad and Phil went flying, sliding across the polished wooden floor to the foot of a nearby mat, hitting his head with a sickening slam that pulled the attention of the rest of the class.

Phil’s vision swam. There was a face coming into focus. He blinked. He was at the feet of Cadet May. She crouched and looked into his eyes. He squinted, moaning both at the aching pain where the crown of his head had hit the floor and the undignified manner in which he was finally introducing himself to the girl he’d had his eyes on for the past week.

A warm hand cupped the back off his head, bringing his forehead to her shoulder so she could slip an arm around his shoulders and sit him up. He noted nothing but how the heat of the activity radiated off her and her hair in his face, it wasn’t unpleasant, most of it was drawn back in a ponytail, but whispers of it escaped, stroking his forehead as she manoeuvred him.

“You okay?” She asked quietly, her fingers gripping his shoulder. She set his back against her chest as she knelt.

Phil’s vision was still spotty and the back of his head hurt like hell, “I will be.”

May caught his chin with one hand and placed the thumb from the other on his eyebrow, pulling upward lightly. Phil assumed that was his cue to stop blinking. She stared pointedly into his eyes and Phil stared back, unsure where he was meant to look. This wasn’t the first time he’d been checked for concussion, but usually it had been one of his tutors in Boston or Mrs Lee the housekeeper, not the intriguing cadet he’d been thinking about all week.

It felt like another week had passed in those few moments. Agent Isaacs broke the spell, the man knelt beside the two cadets, “How’d you feel, Coulson?” His brow formed a series of worried lines on his forehead.

“Uh…” Phil struggled to come out with an answer.

May took over, “I think he might have a concussion, Sir.”

Agent Isaacs nodded, humming like he was coming to a decision, “Ok, Cadet May. Escort Coulson down to the infirmary immediately… It’s a pain to scrub sick out of these mats…” The agent trailed off, getting up and making a move to go talk to Felix.

Phil let himself be half-hauled off the floor. May was strong but he was still a fair bit heavier than her and he tried to help as much as possible. His sight blacked out a bit as his feet found themselves and his world levelled out. Aside from the severe aching pain in his head Phil felt pretty okay, but he still let May keep his arm round her shoulders as she walked him out the sparring room.

There were two infirmaries on campus. A smaller one at the base of level 4 for time-sensitive emergencies and smaller scrapes, meaning it was basically S.H.I.E.L.D Academy’s A&E centre. The larger infirmary was in sector 6, the administrative sector, for overnight stays. Sometimes agents would be flown in after missions to receive treatment there too. Those were always exciting days, or so Phil had heard.

Apparently once Strike Team Beta, consisting of Agents Zhang and Terrance, had flown half an empty commercial aeroplane into the landing strip behind Sector 6 whilst the plane was still alight. Cadets had swarmed to the scene, classes forgotten, to cheer the Agents as they emerged practically unscathed from the wreckage.

Phil had always loved those stories, though they’d come to be more alike legends now, everyone had their own version. Agent Zhang was dead now, at 44, Phil had attended the commemoration ceremony at a S.H.I.E.L.D base in Maine. There had been no family there to take the flag, just Agent Terrance, stood there in a black dress, her eyes dim and downcast. Agent Zhang had been shot down in Moscow three years previous. A bullet had ruptured his spleen, he was gone in minutes. It was morbidly amazing how a man who’d defeated so many incredible challenges, a defector from the Chinese Secret Service, a revered hero, who’d somehow flown half an aeroplane into land from 10,000 feet, and walked away with nothing but a scraped elbow, could be taken out by a small, rogue piece of metal.

Life was funny that way. Funny and fragile. Even when you’re a highly trained agent.

Agent Terrance had gone into administration after that, not keen to stay in the field without the partner she’d stood beside for 15 years. Something so tiny, no bigger than the tip of Phil’s pinkie finger, mass produced in a warehouse in Thailand, had pulled apart one of the best teams S.H.I.E.L.D had ever created.

May took Phil’s distant expression as symptom of concussion.

She jabbed him in the side as they walked through the door to the infirmary, “Coulson. You with me?”

“I’m fine.” He answered, blinking rapidly as they approached the desk in the lobby.

The bored looking young receptionist sent them right through to one of the doctors. It had been a slow Tuesday apparently, as they always were at the start of the year. By Christmas the waiting room would be packed with wounded cadets daily.

Doctor Reed poked and prodded him a little, shining a bright light into his retina and squinting.

“Response is normal, but slow.” She tutted. “Maybe a mild concussion. I want you under surveillance for an hour at the least. No returning to training I want you to avoid physical activity for the afternoon.”

Phil sighed, that meant an hour of sitting around being bored out of his mind in the waiting room.

“I’ll keep an eye on him.” May offered.

She’d insisted on staying. Doctor Reed had told her she was free to return to training as soon as they’d entered the examination room, but she’d blown off the suggestion.

Doctor Reed considered the proposition a moment, upon appraising May she decided the girl looked trustworthy, “80 minutes of complete supervision, Cadet. Do you have class at 1:30?”

May shook her head, “Lunch for all 1st years is 1:00 till 2:00 on Tuesdays.”

“Of course.” The Doctor said, not really listening, packing away her things and signing Phil out. “If you could just sign him out err… here.” She pointed to a dotted line at the bottom of the form.

May obliged, writing her whole name neatly on the line.

 _‘Melinda.’_ Phil thought to himself. ‘ _Melinda Qiaolian May.’_ So that was her name. It was a good name, alliterative names always reminded him of comic book superheroes. _‘Agent Melinda May’_. Yeah. That sounded right.

“…Thank you.” Phil finally got around to saying as they turned the corner outside the infirmary.

A few cadets were milling around, a bunch of senior cadets were sat at the foot of Sector 4’s main building. ‘The Barrel’ was what Phil had heard it called. The front of the building was rounded with concrete running in flat large intersections up and down, like planks of a barrel, with strips of concrete jutting out and running horizontally across, like metal rims. Phil could see why it had garnered that nickname. When a the seven of them had been walking in for sparring Phil had heard a senior mutter something about ‘fresh fish in the barrel’, and others had sniggered. Phil could guess who the ‘fresh fish’ were.

“Got me out of class.” Melinda smiled, not looking at Phil but at the ground in front of her as she walked.

“You don’t like sparring?” Phil was surprised, given what he’d witnessed of her form before he’d had his cranium slammed into the floor.

May moistened her lips, “With Jones I may as well be sparring with a sack of flour. He’s sloppy. Uncoordinated at best.”

Phil nodded. His partner, Felix, had previous training in hand-to-hand but as he’d let Phil know, repeatedly, he was better with a gun. Though he was entertaining enough for it not to be boring he wasn’t a challenge for Phil.

“Where are we going?” Phil redirected her attention to the direction in which they were walking.

They were headed out of Sector 4, toward the edge of campus.

May looked to Phil, “I was following you?”

She looked so confused by the fact they’d just been mindlessly walking beside each other, trusting that the other had a plan, Phil couldn’t help but smile. It was thin and wide and genuine.

“Let’s just see where our legs carry us.” Phil said light-heartedly, continuing, striding off in the direction they’d been headed.

May jogged to catch up with him, refusing to walk anywhere but at his side.

The Academy was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields. There was a patch of woodland behind Sector 4, across the training fields, that Phil had his eye on. Technically cadets weren’t allowed to leave campus during week days, but a kilometre or so was unlikely to get you in trouble.

It was cooler when they entered the trees.

May looked around, “The woods?”

Phil shrugged, “I’m just curious.” The crunch of the undergrowth beneath his feet sounded like home to him. There was a fresh smell of damp wood and wet earth in the air; it had rained last night.

“About twigs?” May huffed.

“We had a forest in Wisconsin, a huge one, just wondering if they’re different here.” Phil mused.

It was, the trees were different here, less spindly and sturdier looking, they let less light through. Phil had always liked the way the ground had looked when it was dappled with green light, the spare rays that had made their way past the leaves of the tree over-hanging his head.

“You’re from Wisconsin.” It was a statement, but it held an edge of curiosity, and surprise, like she’d expected something else.

“Lived there till I was 13.” Phil nudged a fallen, rotting tree with his boot, breaking off a shard of damp, golden bark.

“Why’d you leave?” She sat down on the fallen tree he was still prodding with toe.

“Um…” He considered his options a moment, coming to sit beside her, side by side, not quite touching. “Being there didn’t make sense anymore.”

They sat in silence. It was comfortable, like he was sat beside an old friend.

“I was 14.” May spoke up, breaking the level quiet, interrupted previously only by the rush of the wind through the leaves, and birds calling out to one another. “When he died. My Baba… Dad, I mean.” She didn’t sound sad, just resigned to the fact. It was truth she had learned to accept. A statement she’d repeated to herself every night until she believed it to be true.

“Sorry.” Phil said lamely, wincing at how the word sounded.

“No, don’t.” May told him, her voice low. “I just know how it is. Okay?”

Phil gulped, “I was nine when he died.” Twisting his hands in his lap. “Thirteen when she did.”

She didn’t look at him, just continued to sit, eyes ahead. “Do you miss them?”

Phil released a long, shallow breath, “Yes.” A part of him would always miss them, or if not that, then it would mourn the life he could have had if he’d not been left all alone.

She nodded “Yeah,” eyes downcast now, like she was recalling something; a memory. A ghost of an old smile played across her features, a little broken, a little sad.

He wasn’t sure who moved closer, but suddenly her leg was warm against his and their shoulders bumped together softly. The light, guarded connection was a comfort, at least to Phil. May seemed to become smaller to him as they touched, perhaps it was her taut muscles relaxing, or maybe she’d just been that small all along.

 

* * *

 

She ate lunch with the seven of them. The edge of her mouth quirking when Harry joked, smiling openly when Mila rebuked him.

Felix apologised for striking Phil out, “Sorry, Phil. I really thought you were ready.”

“No problem, it was my fault.” Phil pursed his lips, “I got distracted."

When it came to part from her something about it felt uncomfortable, like there should be more. What if they never spoke again? Phil didn’t want that. He wanted assurance.

“Spar with me. Thursday.” He suggested as she walked away.

May turned, eyes narrowing just barely, “What? So I can give you a concussion again?” She smiled. “Alright, you’re on Coulson. Thursday morning. See you.”

And she was gone, walking off toward Sector 3 without glancing back, her dark hair glinting with a fiery energy as the sun began to creep down below the horizon.

 _‘So I can give you a concussion again.’_ She knew. She knew she’d been the reason he broke stance, that meeting her eyes had made him lose control.

There was something here.

 

* * *

 

 

_please follow me at[coulsonskids](http://www.coulsonskids.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! i'm taking prompts_

 

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**Author's Note:**

> Any enthusiasm is a gift and please let me know if this is worth continuing!


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